


I Created a Monster

by Harker13



Series: Soundtracks [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Come Swallowing, Drooling, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Hair-pulling, Inspired by Music, Lestrade kindda caused it, Licking, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Unspoken things, blowjob, god I'm awful with tags, post orgasm happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24654448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harker13/pseuds/Harker13
Summary: Among his dynamics, Sherlock always seems to be the one on the verge of collapse ... that's why, when John finds himself in the same situation, everything gets complicated, especially due to his inability to express what ails him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Soundtracks [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771546
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	I Created a Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: I really want to write porn, but think I secretly crave for romance :/ 
> 
> We’ll see how that goes next time.
> 
> Enjoy!

“John”, he said firmly stepping in front of him, barefooted, cold and frankly, exhausted.

There was no response from the frowning figure in front of the telly. John wasn’t looking at it, his blank stare wandered to the pouring rain hitting the window, “John, get up”.

Sherlock became truly aware of this recurrence a few weeks ago. Something was preventing his good doctor of the calmness to endure the whole night; there weren’t nightmares anymore; just crippling anxiety about something he couldn’t just put his finger around and was forthrightly afraid to ask.

If John had something, he should just tell him. That’s what functional adults do; they speak out loud when something bothers them, _right?_

Sod it.

Both were grown men around their 40’s, who still haven’t got a clue on how to handle difficult conversations. They kept doing what they did better, and that didn’t work for a good part of their lives: recluse on themselves and get offended by the other one’s behaviour.

_How mature, John. I’m dazed by your remarkable critical thinking and dramatic problem-solving techniques. How much more time will you need to be “ready” and tell me? Does it turn you on to be overwhelmingly dramatic?! oh, wait… that’s me._

Weeks passed, and John seemed less and less ready, which made Sherlock fucking freak the hell out because (1) poor dear John, what could hurt that much?, (2) he didn’t handle well the fact that he was being ignored, it was a childish assumption to vociferate, but the truth was that … nobody should ignore Sherlock Fucking Holmes, (3) they lived together for Christ’s sake, and the silence was unbearable.

_Why do you refuse to accept my help served on a silver platter?!_

His patience had been running out more and more with every single monosyllable that John carefully crafted to respond to every question.

But today, it was six in the morning, and he was sure John hadn’t slept a bit. It was very much to say coming from Sherlock, who considered himself a self-imposed nocturnal creature, but even for his standards, John was beginning to look like an actual living dead, pale as fuck, emaciated, sick and sad.

_Why are you so miserable? Tell me what to do, tell me how to help, tell me what NOT to do, but please tell me something… it won’t work if I try to rip it out your chest, tell me what to do … I need more data … please talk to me; I don’t have a clue how to read it, I’ve never had with you._

Sherlock remained firm on the spot, waiting for John to react; this was not a battle he was willing to lose. Not this time. His mum would be proud of him. _No, don’t think of your mother now!_

“Fuck off”, said John without looking away from the window.

Nowadays, that seemed to be the only thing he wanted to do; stare like a zombie to the useless images processing and numbing his brain. A doctor, such a brilliant specimen should never feel as meaningless as John Watson had been feeling, but that was precisely the problem. Sherlock didn’t know what to do about such futile and complicated matters as _feelings_.

He was sure that they couldn’t have navigated their entire life without uninterrupted happiness. Still, he prayed _(Is that what people usually do?)_ for John’s sanity to never slip away, since when he oversaw fixing them things tend to get a bit messy.

“Just, please Sherlock … get off my sight”.

_Now… how… dare… you._

**\- - -**

A few months ago, it was late at night when both burst through to the flat in a rush to retrieve a blood vial recklessly stolen by Sherlock from a perfectly labelled box as **EVIDENCE** at Scotland Yard.

Now Lestrade was going crazy finding a way to buy time for the pair of stupid advisers to return that crucial piece of evidence before the entire case was dismantled for mismanagement of resources, and the suspect was released. He pleaded calmly while pulling out a bottle of Jack Daniels from his desk and vigorously placing a paper cup on the table:

"You don't mess with administration and paperwork!

How many times do I have to tell you!? If there is no paperwork, the cases are dismissed, I lose my job, my mortgage, and I will have to eat frozen dinners for the next five years, to say the least…

You know what that means!? No more cases for you either! **Bring back my bloody evidence!** ".

A young intimidated and terrorised constable drove them, they had to be back at the Yard in 30 minutes or less. Without being able to sleep for about five days, both were on the verge of sickness, physical and of each other.

John advocated reason, as always, "It should be on the fridge, right? It's a vial it needs to be refr… JESUS!".

The entire fridge was thoroughly hoarded with **dead toads**. Dead, slimy and not at all well preserved ( _possibly venomous?)_ toads.

“Stop, moving my stuff!”, shouted Sherlock from the other side of the room, still rumpling and leaving a mess at his wake, “It was right here… I’m sure”.

“It was not right there”.

“Oh, God, your voice is so annoying!” – Sherlock covered his face muffling a growl.

“Then stop pestering me and keep looking, pompous git!”

Collapse and crisis seemed inevitable at this point; John had to remember himself that running solely on caffeine and angst could have worked during his teens but not in the dawn of his youthfulness. Now he understood why people inhaled cocaine, very much more practical.

He turned just in time as a very frantic and edged Sherlock punched him on the cheek, making him trip over, just barely maintaining balance by mere willpower, anger and expectation, this was the invitation he had been waiting for ages. He was so going to seize it. John approached the detective, took him by the head and banged him against the wall. The look of shock in Sherlock’s face was incredible; what was he expecting then? John grabbed him by his shirt collar and slammed him against the kitchen table, knocking off all Sherlock’s mad scientist paraphernalia.

A symphony of crashing glass, banging tables and shouts could be heard from the street were Lestrade’s constable kept waiting for them, only 3 minutes had passed … they still got time. He nervously tried to light a cigarette but rectified after deciding that it would be a long night, in which it would be prudent not to be under the influence of more stimulants. He pulled out a pack of gum from his other pocket and waited.

They were panting, face to face.

John was still holding Sherlock by the shirt, pinning him down. His lips went fiercely toward the curve of his neck as his hands unbuttoned the excited man's shirt beneath him, exposing a perfect silky white torso. John would lie if he said he hadn't dreamt of doing this on repeated occasions. He instinctively rubbed himself against Sherlock's rising erection, pulsing uncomfortably below him, not daring to retrieve his lips from the spot where he was nibbling at that precise moment; not able as well to trace a long lick up to Sherlock's earlobe. He tasted sinfully sweet.

He pulled Sherlock to a sitting position stripping him from the remaining of his clothes with timed precision. Instinctively, Sherlock wrapped his ankles around John's waist, using both hands to leverage and offer himself to be ( _Please!)_ savagely fucked. He hoped the phrase – _Actions speak louder than words_ – would suffice for John to understand his plea, as he felt how his capacity to formulate coherent sentences fell apart.

John was surely ready, like so fucking ready, to just thrust himself up Sherlock's prostate until he was begging him to please stop scrambling his intestines.

But John Watson was nothing if not a gentleman and had a sudden rush of responsibility and clearness within him that made his reptilian brain stop from raw-fuck the gorgeous specimen now nesting in his arms.

"Lube…", the word came hoarse, as he cleared his throat, "we need lube", and looked around for anything ( _Condiment? Oil? Leftovers?)_ that could be used to ease the way up to their release.

And just like that, like so many times before, John Watson's voice, not even knowing, was the perfect conductor of light for the darkest times in Sherlock's madness.

"Check the yoghurt pot! There’s the vial!”.

**\- - -**

But that perfect moment occurred aeons ago.

“You’re annoying me. You’ve been annoying me with this self-pity parade you’ve insisted on keeping for the past month, now … get up and come to bed” – Sherlock said as firmly as he could, feeling a knot forming in the middle of his throat, making each swallow difficult to hide.

John stood up suddenly, anger filling his features, and threw a long-forgotten cup of tea at the wall. Leaving a trail of broken porcelain as it fell to the ground.

“Heed … what I say … now is not your place to play the hero, ok?”.

With that final statement, John began to walk away to his old room, but before Sherlock could stop himself, the words were leaving him, unleashing the storm.

“Have you considered you are probably exaggerating?”.

“This is what you signed for!”, he spat, “The fact that you think so great of yourself as a self-sacrificed prick who thinks can save everyone around you is …”, he visibly was struggling to avoid stuttering, failing miserably, “… why do you keep having this need … this … this…. _I-need-to-rescue-stray-puppies_ syndrome?!”.

“You are a DOCTOR for God’s sake!”, he attacked back, “Can’t you see that this is all in your head? That it’s just a malfunction in all the neurochemical transmissions and synapsis your brain is not doing!? You could fix it if you want to, you know how this works!”.

John became speechless, his eyes soft with something close to disappointment, “You’re such an arsehole … you know that?”.

“I’ve … been told”.

John scoffed at the affirmation. Sherlock approached him slowly and gently made him lift his face to meet his eyes.

“But that’s how it works”, he smiled, “I haven’t felt the need to kick you out of my side, not once.”

Sometimes the bubble needs burst only to re-inflate magnificently, and you … my dearest, keep failing to recognize that it’s ok if your bursts much sooner or frequently than mine. Now, would you please let me take care of you?”.

“I’m ok. I’m just tired…”

“Surely, but I meant you haven’t taken a shower in the past four days and haven’t eaten more than half an apple, cold tea, two aspirins, a bar of expired chocolate and cheap scotch”.

“Hey, it’s not cheap!”.

“Mycroft would disagree with such a bold statement”.

A smirk appeared in his face, a lovely sight that Sherlock was worried could never get soon enough again. He gently took him by the hand, led him to the bathroom and helped him strip. They moved in silence. Sherlock traced smooth strokes against each of John’s tight muscles. John rested his head on the edge of the bathtub, sit while Sherlock washed him, making sure of never leaving him untouched; for some reason, this gesture felt extremely important.

They finished, and he dried John covering him with their fluffiest towel saved for special occasions, leaning more than necessary with the excuse to shield him from cold. It was a surprise when John’s arm snaked around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him into a hug. A silent, magnificently sweet hug that Sherlock responded without questioning. Every few seconds, John tightened the grip of his arms, almost afraid to let go of him.

Carefully, he guided John to the bedroom door before stopping abruptly and turning John into the living room, making him sit in his chair, still protected by his cocoon of cotton.

"Clean sheets, I'll change them, wait here”.

John grabbed him by the wrist before he could get further away and pulled him until he was sitting on his lap, stroking him, guiding his hands between Sherlock's thighs to snap his attention, flustered, whispering: "You still like this, don't you?”, while tightening the grip on Sherlock's cock.

John seemed exhausted; content but tired.

Sherlock sank onto his knees, spreading John's naked legs watching as his throbbing cock began to drip. He put his hands between John's bottom and the back of the chair, holding himself for dear life. As John hooked his leg above Sherlock's shoulder, the other stayed firmly on the floor, grounding both.

Sherlock took him into his mouth, and every time he felt like he was about to choke and tried to withdraw, John's hand stopped him in place, pushing himself deeper into Sherlock's throat.

"No, don't move", it came as almost a whisper but had all the authority of the confident man within him. A pool of drool was forming in the base of John's shaft, Sherlock's eyes began to water at the effort of not throwing up. He tightened the grip between Sherlocks' muffled whimpers and each new thread of drool.

He continued sucking him while the world went blank, in a symphony of raged breaths accompanied by John's heaving chest. He kept preventing Sherlock to retreat, and vigorously pulled from Sherlock’s hair for him to look up straight in the eye, "Swallow me", he tightened the grip, "Can you do it for me, love?", he pulled his head to one side sucking a bruise on Sherlock's pale neck, "Can you?".

John’s head fell back as a blinding orgasm stroke him while his lover's mouth kept taking care of him.

Sherlock rested his head on John’s thigh, breathing heavily, they sure needed a moment to recompose themselves, but there seemed it wasn’t time for that:

“I’m sorry about what I said, it’s not in your head… at least, not just there … sorry to belittle it.”

He was still breathing hard, but that last sentence made him look straight into the eyes of his partner, there was a special touch of tenderness in Sherlock Holmes apologizing. It might not be much for other people, but the way his chest felt warm made up for any misunderstanding.

“Are you hungry? I could get someth …”

But he was interrupted by a ferocious kiss, that would surely make his lip swell in a few hours.

“Better idea”, John growled, “Feed me with your moans”.

**Author's Note:**

> This short story was inspired by the song:
> 
> "I created a monster" by Hello Operator.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
